Waking Up With You (15 page)

“That would be just great, Jake! I don’t know why I never thought of that.”

I smile sweetly at him and start pushing the cart around. It’s actually quite fun to go grocery shopping with Jake. He definitely knows his way around the store. I hunt for saffron and he easily finds the last bottle. We argue about what size of turkey to buy and he wins. As if we don’t have enough to eat, he suggests a special hors d'oeuvre of mushrooms, so we get a box of shiitake mushrooms. Our cart slowly fills up. Our bill totals more than three hundred dollars but he doesn’t seem to mind. We unload the groceries to the car and head home.

After almost an hour of unpacking and putting away the stuff we just purchased, he says, “Are we buying the Christmas tree tonight?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early?”

He grins. “You may be right. I just get excited about trees. We’ll get one first week of December then.” I nod my head.

“Jake, thanks for coming along. I really enjoyed shopping with you,” I say sincerely.

“You’re welcome. It was fun for me too. If you like, I can help with the preparations next week.”

The thought of having him next to me all morning is a bit unnerving, so I say, “No way, I just want you to relax and, when dinner is ready, I’ll call you so you can stuff yourself while you’re busy praising my cooking.”

He gives a thumbs up sign and says, “Good plan.” I burst out laughing.

“You know, I don’t have to go back to work tonight. Do you want to do anything special?” I’m so surprised by his question that it takes me at least a minute to reply.

“Uhm, I don’t know,” I stammer. “How about if we just watch something on the big screen? You have a giant TV that never gets used at all.”

“Okay, bring out the popcorn, he says casually. “I’m serious, Em, we need a bowl of popcorn. We’ll dim the lights and pretend we’re watching at the theater.”

Dim the lights? This may not be such a good idea after all. But I go microwave two bags of popcorn, melt some butter, and grab two cans of soda, dumping it all on a tray and hurrying on to the living room.

Jake has already dimmed the lights and the TV screen is on.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks. I choose an old movie about a young drug addict who’s sentenced to death after killing a policeman and is offered her life back in return for becoming a government assassin. It’s a remake of a highly-rated French film. I figure it’s a safe choice because it’s an action movie.

We sit side by side on the Mitchell Gold + Bob Williams sofa. The seating offers a supportive tight back and the loose seat cushions are great for lounging. I do my best to put some space between us, conscious of my own erratic heartbeat, but Jake doesn’t seem to notice. He just watches the movie in silence, while reaching for the popcorn every now and then.

Towards the end, the recruiter lets the female protagonist have her freedom and I realize he has unrequited feelings for her. My vibrations are affecting everything, including my choice in movies. When the movie ends, Jake turns on the lights and I give a silent sigh of relief.

“He shouldn’t have let her go,” Jake says.

“Excuse me?” I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

“The recruiter – he loved her so he let her go, but I think he should have just declared his love for her. The movie would have ended on a better note.”

“He had to let her go. I mean, it’s not really clear if she likes him back, so he did the right thing. If you love someone, you want them to be happy,” I state what’s on my mind, but not in my heart.

“I see,” he simply says and then keeps quiet.

“Anyway,” I hurriedly say, “I didn’t like the movie that much. The French version is probably better.”

“Probably,” he says while yawning and stretching. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty tired.”

“Shopping can be a lot more tiring than working,” I say with a smile.

“Definitely. I have some structural plans to review, and then I’ll call it a night.”

“Okay, I have a report to finish for Philosophy, so I’m going to work on that tonight.” I go next to him and give him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks again, Jake.” He squeezes my shoulder.

“Good night, Em.”

I retire to my room shortly, and go over to my desk to work on the report for Dr. Merritt. The question we have to answer: “What is the meaning of life?” I groan, knowing it’s going to be a long night. I start typing on my laptop. “Is it the meaning of life that human beings should be looking for or …”

I’ve been up since six this morning. For two hours now, I’ve been chopping, mincing, frying, kneading and more. Flour is all over the countertop, but my pies have perfect decorative crusts and are about to go into the oven. Jake walks in, half naked and ready to go for a swim in the pool.

“You’re up early,” he says with a smile.

“And you’re later than usual,” I reply.

“I know. I was home past midnight, rushing all the drafting so that I don’t have to think about work this weekend. I don’t even have the stamina for weights this morning.”

“Don’t mind me. I’m on a timetable here so…” I don’t finish my sentence, my mind already distracted by the butter I’ve forgotten to melt.

He approaches me and tenderly touches my cheek. I don’t move for a few seconds, and just stare at him.

“Flour,” he says.

“What?” I ask like an idiot.

“You had flour on your face.” He turns around, walks to the pool, drops his towel on the side of the pool and dives in. I watch him for a while as he executes his perfect butterfly strokes.
Show-off.
All good things come to an end as my timer beeps and I run to the oven to check on my dinner rolls.

As I’m rubbing mayonnaise all over my turkey, I hear a voice over my shoulder saying, “You missed a spot,” and I practically jump out of my skin.

“You startled me,” I accuse him, giving him a sharp look.

“I’m sorry. My, you’re testy,” he comments. “See that spot over there,” he says while pointing to the underside of the turkey. “You missed it.”

“Don’t you have some exercising to do?” I snap irritably.

He brings up both hands as if to protect himself. “Geez, I was going to help you, but if you’re going to be all crabby…”

“If you really want to help, you can start by putting on some clothes,” I say tartly.

“Am I disturbing you with my state of undress?” he asks cheerfully.

Yes, you’re making it hard for me to concentrate.
“No, safety in the kitchen is very important,” I counter.

“Okay, shower and clothing it is,” he says as he saunters to his room.

While he’s gone, I get busy with the mashed potatoes and the oven-roasted vegetables. Cooking normally relaxes me, but my nerves are frazzled by the food prepping today. Is it because there’s so much to do or because I’m trying to make everything perfect for our first Thanksgiving as a couple?

Jake comes in, clad in navy slacks and a light grey sweater. I wonder if he ever looks badly dressed, because I’ve never seen him look anything
but
like a model for GQ.

“So what do you want me to do?” he eagerly asks.

“We’re doing two casseroles each of sweet potato and two-cheese squash. You think you can handle that?” I ask smugly.

He just gives me a ‘you’d better believe it’ look and starts working. I have to say, he’d make a great chef if he ever wanted to change occupations. He has an instinctive sense of what food goes with what. Creative with his ingredients and quite dexterous with the knife, he has a visceral approach to cooking, dipping into every pot and tasting everything.

He’s making the cranberry sauce, and I watch him closely as he puts in some orange zest. When he’s done, he partially fills a ladle with the sauce, dips his finger into it, smacks his lips in appreciation, and then dips his finger in one more time. This time, he puts his finger into my mouth and I have no choice but to suck at it for a taste of the sauce. He’s looking intently at my face and I turn bright red.
Oh, God. Why is he doing this?

“Is it good?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I respond in a daze.

“Do you want more?” he asks softly.

“No, I’m good,” I say a little more loudly than I should. I quickly hide my trembling hands at my back.

“Pity,” he mumbles and then goes back to preparing one of the casseroles.

In the next few hours, we casually banter while finishing up with the cooking and baking. At one point, he starts throwing red pepper and green bean strips at me, and I come back by pelting him with corn kernels. What can I say? We’re like toddlers playing around while waiting for the turkey to be done. It is a long, boring wait. After I take out the bird and put it on the stove top, he pushes me out of the way as he uses the lifters to put it on the platter. He sprinkles flour into the roasting pan and whisks.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask in a bossy tone.

“I’m making the gravy.”

“Nooo…I’m making the gravy,” I say with finality, reaching out for my own clean whisk.

“Rock, paper, scissors?” he suggests, and we both chortle at our silly antics.

We now have a total of six pies, an assortment of sidings,
and a turkey in the pear tree. A little holiday humor.

“Let’s bring the pies and sidings to the shelter first,” he says. “That way, they can serve it on time.”

“Good idea. Do I need to change?”

“Nope, just take off the apron and put on a cardigan. We’re ready to go.”

We reach the shelter in ten minutes. The directress, Anita Vasquez, greets Jake with a warm welcome. He’s obviously a valued patron and generous contributor.

“Anita, I’d like you to meet my wife, Emma.” I’m so surprised at the way he introduces me that I remain frozen on the spot until Anita comes close to give me a hug.

“Welcome, my dear,” she says.

“Hello. I’m so happy to meet you.”

“Anita, we brought a few homemade pies and sidings to add to your table,” Jake says.

“Jake, you are an angel. You already covered the cost of this year’s feast and now…” she pauses, obviously touched by his gesture.

“Anita, it’s nothing really. Emma loves to cook and bake. I just want a few more people to appreciate my talented wife,” he says while winking playfully at me. I glow in his praise, though I know it’s mainly to set Anita at ease.

After a few more minutes, we say goodbye. Once seated inside his car, I reach over and give him a peck on the cheek.

He looks questioningly at me.

“Just because you’re an angel,” I tell him with a little smile.

“Anita exaggerates. Don’t believe everything you hear,” he says lightly.

“I know exactly what to believe.” I give his hand a slight squeeze.

Back home, we start our own Thanksgiving celebration. I spread a new tablecloth with a harvest theme on the long table. Then, one by one, we set the table with the dishes we cooked. The colors mesh like browns and golds on a canvas.

“We have outdone ourselves,” I say with pride.

“No, you made it happen. I was just helping out,” he compliments me.

“Should we go change quickly?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees.

I have a shower, blow dry my hair, and apply just a coat of mascara and some lip gloss. I choose a short red long-sleeve skater dress with a low scoop back, and pair it with nude pumps. I want to keep it simple, so I wear no accessories at all.

When I walk into the dining room, he’s already seated. Classic songs are playing on the sound system. He’s changed into one of his usual suits for work, and he’s so dashing that my insides are leaping with excitement. His gaze is riveted on my face until the familiar mask descends once again. He stands up and graciously pulls out a chair for me. I can feel the heat of his gaze upon my bare back as I slowly sit down.

“You look beautiful,” he says softly.

No man has ever said that to me and, for a moment, I think that I’m imagining things. But when he lightly strokes my back, I feel him saying the words with his hands and I shudder.
Please love me… Shut up, Emma.

He takes out the chilled bottle of champagne from the bucket, removes the foil wrap, tilts it to a forty-five degree angle, and slowly moves the bottom of the bottle until the cork pops out. He pours twice into each flute glass.

“I think because it is a special occasion, it will be okay to let you drink one glass. I remember that Charlie always gave you a sip on New Year’s Day.” I nod in recollection.

He hands me one flute glass and we clink our glasses as he solemnly says, “In gratitude for a wonderful year and in remembrance of Charlie.” Tears tremble on my eyelids, but I wipe them dry.

I sip the champagne, enjoying the aroma and the ripe fruity taste.

“Go slowly, Em,” Jake cautions me. He then stands up to carve the turkey and transfers a few pieces neatly to both our plates.

I put a spoon of mashed potatoes and some roasted vegetables on my plate. I pass Jake a few of the other sidings. We dine in silence, the air around us electrified. I hold out my flute glass for Jake to refill and, after a moment’s hesitation, he pours more champagne.

I gulp down my drink and my body starts to feel warm and cozy. After some time, everything is fuzzy. I seem to be suffering from some form of vision delay.

Jake touches my hand. “Emma, are you okay?” There’s concern in Jake’s voice, but I brush away his hand.

In response, I get up, pull his arms, and yank him to his feet. “Let’s dance.” He looks at me, unwilling to take me up on my offer, but I move dangerously close to his body and force his hands on my derriere. We take a few tentative steps, but I throw caution to the wind and put my hands underneath his suit jacket, and move them up and down his back.

“Do you really want this?” he asks in a whisper.

“Yes. Touch me, please.” I plead without shame.

He nips my earlobe and a small sigh escapes me. His tongue traces the fullness of my lips and I moan as he brings his hot mouth to mine. He ravages me with a series of long, hard kisses. I feel like I’m slowly melting. He stops and then gently takes my hand, leading me to his bedroom. I’ve never been inside this room, but I am too impatient to even look around. I just want him to hold me again.